fIrst the trees rise up, then are lopped

into logs, a family

taken at birth to serve a purpose

to rise again in smoke

giving solace to us who huddle

against the almighty sky as it draws

the hot breath, rubbing its hands

when we are finished with it


and the children dance into the night


wrapped in flame like a will collapsing

            a coloration of the hot spectrum

            as the dead life is drawn out.


and the log man in charge of this purge


keen of eye, free to roam yardbound

knows the value of heat from the ground

up, will face you with his wooden face

there when he needs you

with stumps and stacks contoured with

the rings and grain shouting history


fingerprints of the family


            who share his life with the crawling

            and teeming invaders looking for a home




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Laura Taylor

Wed 23rd Sep 2015 11:49

Oh I love this, it's delicious. Me and my fella love to have fires in our little concrete yard. We go and collect firewood from a little wood near home, and there is nothing finer than sitting in front of the flames, with a well-built fire and a good solid base, staring up at the stars sometimes with a nice glass of red.

This poem sums it all up beautifully. Love it! I can't even pick out favourite lines - it's all fab. Nicely done Ray.

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